


Anchor

by Jadzibelle



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Audrey with traces of Lexie, F/M, Post-Barn, references to being trapped in an enclosed space, references to first aid/minor medical stuff - sutures, season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzibelle/pseuds/Jadzibelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duke’s hands are steady as he works a line of stitches up her thigh, one by one by one.  She didn’t know he could do this, but it is not as much a surprise as it might have been- it sticks in her throat, though, wondering how he’d learned.  Imagining him practicing on his own hurts, or- as he’d implied a time or two- on Simon’s, when he was still entirely too young.  His hands are steady, and sure, and gentle, and the tension in her muscles is only partly because of the sting.<br/>----<br/>A short Daudrey ficlet, written for Daudrey night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

Duke’s hands are steady as he works a line of stitches up her thigh, one by one by one. She didn’t know he could do this, but it is not as much a surprise as it might have been- it sticks in her throat, though, wondering how he’d learned. Imagining him practicing on his own hurts, or- as he’d implied a time or two- on Simon’s, when he was still entirely too young. His hands are steady, and sure, and _gentle_ , and the tension in her muscles is only partly because of the sting.

She shifts a bit, parts her knees as she tries to find a more comfortable position on the crumpled rear seat of the wrecked truck, and Duke’s attention doesn’t falter, even when her skirt rides up. Because he’s more of a gentleman than he’d like to claim, and more practical than he’d like to admit, and more than either of those things, he’s always put aside his own interests to see to her hurts.

“Sorry,” he says, and it’s absent and automatic and also entirely too genuine. “Just a couple more, then you’ll be done.”

“You’re not hurting me,” she assures, because he needs to hear it. Because she sees the first trace of a tremble in his hands, and she knows he’s blaming himself.

As if it’s his fault the road opened up beneath them and swallowed them whole.

“Duke,” she says, firmly enough to draw his attention. His dark eyes are full of shadows, black in the pitiful glow of the truck’s dome light. She prefers them in full sun, when they are the color of fine scotch, but she’ll take shadows over silver. “This isn’t your fault. The road fell out from under us, wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

“I know that, Audrey,” he says, and he _does_ , and he _doesn’t_ , and it frustrates her, but that’s Duke. Always ready to take the blame for the sins of the universe.

“How long do you think it’s going to take them to figure out where we are?” she asks, and maybe she shouldn’t, but it’s kind of important.

“Nathan’ll figure it out. Sixteen hours, tops. Maybe another four to get the kind of equipment he needs to get us _out_.” Duke sounds confident, certain. She supposes he has reason.

Sixteen hours. Not terrible. And she could have worse company.

“There,” Duke says, and Audrey looks down, examines the line of dark sutures. Some part of her- Sarah, she thinks, it’s been easier to tell since she walked out of the Barn, wound up with Lexie riding shotgun- knows that Duke did an excellent job, and she’s grateful. She wonders if it will scar anyway, despite the stitches, wonders if it will be another permanent mark to trace her history by.

Wonders if it will matter, with the Barn gone.

Her left hand tightens into a fist, curls around the hem of the Lexie-inspired skirt, and she takes a moment to steady her breathing. Duke glances up, brows pulling down, and she pastes on a smile. He remains unimpressed, and Audrey isn’t sure how to explain.

How to voice the frustrations that have been simmering since she landed in a field with a voice in her head and the weight of the town right back on her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she says, and Duke sits back on his heels, folded a little awkwardly; there’s not a lot of space in the little pocket they’ve landed in, and she thinks he’s favoring his right side, besides, but he hasn’t said anything and Sarah isn’t loud enough that Audrey thinks there’s any point in her trying to play doctor. If it’s serious, Duke will tell her eventually. If it’s not, well, sixteen hours isn’t that long.

“We’ve got water,” Duke says, changing the subject, letting her keep her silence. “Couple of snacks out of the emergency kit, too.” He shifts again, moves to stand as much as he can, and Audrey reaches out, catches his hand. He stops, and she shifts over, pats the seat beside her.

“Later,” she says, and he shrugs and sits down. She leans into his side, and he freezes, goes entirely still, exactly the way he always does when she hugs him, when she puts herself in his space. She presses closer, and very slowly, very cautiously, he puts an arm around her waist.

She figures that counts as progress.

“Sorry about the truck,” she says, and he shrugs.

“‘Least we weren’t in your car. We’ve got supplies, little more room. Still mostly in one piece.” He sounds casual, but she’s pretty sure he’s more upset about the truck than he wants to let on. He’s not quite as obvious as Nathan is with the Bronco, but Duke is protective of what’s his. She supposes he’s had to be.

His arm around her tightens, just slightly, and she wonders if his thoughts have paralleled hers. She lets herself lean, just in case. For a time, they are quiet; Audrey lets her breathing match to Duke’s, steady and slow and measured, wonders if Duke is counting because he’s bored or because he’s scared, wonders if she should be more worried about how much air they have down here. Decides it’s not worth worrying about; she can’t change it, she can only wait.

She’s not very good at waiting. Or silence, come to think of it.

“How long do you think it’s been?” she asks, and Duke shifts against her side, so that he can see her, offers an expression that she catches in her peripheral vision. Disbelief, a trace of amusement.

“Since you asked how long it would be for someone to find us?” he asks, and Audrey shrugs.

“Yeah.”

“Twenty four minutes.”

“...Oh.” _Sixteen hours_ suddenly sounds like a very long time.

“Might have a book somewhere, you want me to look,” Duke offers, and Audrey considers it, but it’s probably a little early for that.

“Maybe. Later,” she says, and she can feel Duke laugh more than she can hear it, a soft little huff of amusement.

“You can rest, if you want. Not going to be much going on for a while.” It goes without saying that if she rests, he’ll stay alert, be attentive to any sign of impending rescue. She could probably close her eyes and sleep for the entire sixteen hours, and he’d let her; he’d told her once that he’d do anything she needed him to, and she does not doubt that it is true.

He, after all, has always been the one to do as she asks. To respect her decisions.

To be patient, let her choose what she spoke to whom, and when. To bow out gracefully when she asked. To stand back and let her walk away.

Tension rolls through her again, frustration, and she turns, twists against his side and practically crawls into his lap. He blinks at her, eyes gone wide and expression entirely lost, and she fixes him with a look that is halfway a demand.

“What you said, before,” she says, and his eyebrows flick up, just enough that she can read his desire to deflect with sarcasm- _he’s said a lot of things, she’ll need to be more specific_ \- but he stays quiet. He’s reading her expression just as deftly, can tell that she’s not willing to be distracted, and he knows what she means.

They’ve always understood each other, after all.

“What you said, before,” she repeats. “You meant it.”

“Of course,” he says, like he’s not sure why she’s asking.

“That offer still stand?” she asks, because she needs to, because the world changed in the months she was not in it.

“...Always,” he says, and he means it.

The world may have changed, but he hasn’t.

“Good,” she says, and kisses him.


End file.
